


Living is Harder

by Kedibonye



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Foster Care, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-01-22 19:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12488852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedibonye/pseuds/Kedibonye
Summary: There are many places one could being this tale. Perhaps start with Alexander’s childhood-- a Dickensian affair culminating in a hurricane destroying his entire town. Or perhaps begin with the hurricane, with the words he wrote which moved millions, with the ambitious American who fast-tracked his immigration and adoption into a new family. Perhaps wait a year and a half, and see the relationship long soured, with legal loopholes allowing his new father to wash his hands of Alexander.But then, there is much to be said of Alexander Hamilton’s life up until the moment we arrive at now. But that’s his story to tell, should he choose to share it. Instead, we’ll begin at the witching hour, at the center of a large estate in rural Virginia. We’ll start with a shaking hand hesitating over a doorbell before it settles to knock smartly on Mr. & Mrs. George Washington’s front door.





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What You Did in the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8895535) by [LdotRage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LdotRage/pseuds/LdotRage). 



So it’s Alex’s first night in his new placement. It was late enough, and Alex’s exhaustion was obvious enough, that his guardian hadn’t even attempted conversation on the way to his room aside from mentioning the en-suite. He’d lingered for a moment, hovering at the door as if to say something. Alex had felt the beginning stirrings of fear, but before they could develop, the man seemed to think better of it, and bid Alex a good night.

 

He looked around the room- taking in the too-large bed ( _probably safe to sleep on, it’s only the first night they don’t hate you yet_ ), the bookshelf and chest of drawers, the moonlit desk beneath a window ( _it’s three stories up from this side of the house, not an ideal exit route_ ), and two smaller doors. By the window, the door opened to a small walk-in closet. It was quickly shut. The other, the bathroom.

 

Alex didn’t know the rules of this house yet, but some were constant- and getting into bed, after a day of stress-sweating into his clothes? Not the best way to start things off. Of course, Alex didn’t know them well enough ( _barely knew more than a name, and when the first word used to describe a man is ‘strict’, you don’t take chances_ ) to know if that would make a late-night shower acceptable.

 

He opted for a compromise and cleaned himself as best he could with a washrag, water, and a miniscule amount of soap.

 

The moonlight behind him painted a silhouette, but even in the dim lighting his eyes had adjusted enough that he could make out more than he’d like. As if the occasional flash of pain as he touched the wrong bit or moved the wrong muscle wasn’t a reminder enough that his body was as worn-down and tired as his mind.

 

Eventually, he deemed himself clean enough ( _hopefully_ ) and changed into the rattier of his two clean outfits.

 

The bed looked even more ominous, now that he’d put off entering it for as long as possible.

 

( _The rules what were the rules why is the bed so large?_ )

 

His body overruled his ( _irrational, crazy_ ) fears, and he climbed into bed. His mind, however, refused to fully shut down. The million things he hadn’t done, the million things he might never do if this placement didn’t work out. The scant information his social worker had given him on Mr. and Mrs. Washington…

  

 ---

 

“Hamilton, I’ll be frank with you. The _only_ reason you aren’t currently on your way to Lynchburg right now is because I spent several hours on the phone preventing that. I know I don’t know everything that went on in the Adams household, but Hamilton- _why_ didn’t you call me? Yes, the residential options I discussed with you would not have been ideal, but even those are no longer a potential placement for you. The way your record looks on paper at this point—almost seventeen or no, there isn’t a judge in this state who would be willing to approve a request for emancipation. It’s a miracle I was able the find a suitable emergency placement on such short notice. Look, Hamilton, I’ve known you for a long time now. I know you have ambitions and goals, and I know you have the test scores and intelligence to back them up. It’s just—”  She paused, taking in Alex’s hunched shoulders and defeated expression.

 

She sighed. He knew all too well what was at stake here.

 

“In any case. I’ve known George—” Alex winced slightly despite himself at the name. “—for a long time. It’s been a long time since he and Martha have been used as an emergency placement, but I discovered when I was trying to find a good option for you that somehow, he’s still registered in the system as an approved foster parent for more… difficult cases. I personally called him to request his assistance, and he agreed. He’s a good man, one of the best really. Cares a lot about his family. Disciplined and strict, but in all the years I’ve known him he’s never been unfair. The Washingtons are your best, and only, option remaining other than Lynchburg. Try to make it work, but if anything goes wrong in any way—please, just call me so we can work together to figure something out before things escalate beyond our control. I know Lynchburg scares you, but any further violence on your part, no matter how justified—Hamilton, at this point you would almost certainly be formally charged as an adult.”

 

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Alexander. Use it.”

 

\---

 

Alex must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knows he’s falling, a tangle of limbs and sheets and instincts pushing his arms out to catch the fall ( _quietquietquiet don’t let them hear)_ and prevent what he knows would have been a loud thump. He chokes on the scream that was threatening to escape, and it’s several minutes of heavy breathing ( _hyperventilation, really, let’s not kid ourselves here)_ before he’s calm enough to fully remember where he is.

 

The Washingtons. His late arrival ( _nearly one and yeah, that’s a great note to start off on)_. He’s safe( _-ish?_ ). It’s almost dawn, judging by the glow coming in through his window. 5:30am, more or less.

 

Maybe three hours of sleep, then. Not bad, really.

 

He worries, briefly, about what he’s expected to be doing right now. Not like he has much to go on, though, so after a moment Alex decides he may as well just not worry overmuch and falls back onto his general morning routine. Once he’s satisfied you could bounce a quarter off the sheets and the rest of the room hasn’t somehow gotten messy in the past few hours, he hops into the shower.

 

His boxers accompany him ( _he’s only got one clean pair, and these ones were a few days past fresh themselves_ ). There’s soap, and a towel, which Alex chooses to interpret as a sign he’s allowed to shower ( _and really, most families are generally okay with the sanitation thing. Really it was just those- well. Moving on._ ) like a real person. Most of the tiny drop of soap he collects, and his rapid scrubbing effort goes into the boxers.

 

But he could never take a shower past five minutes if he tried, so soon he’s wringing out the clothes and carefully hanging them to drip-dry inside the shower.

 

It’s still not even six, and he’s fully dressed ( _as presentable as he gets, really_ ) with no clue what to do with himself.

 

In the pre-dawn light, he can make out the room more clearly. It’s mostly bare, but for a few forgotten tomes and knickknacks on the shelves. He inspects the titles; legal publications from what looks like two decades ago, a Black’s Law Dictionary that’s slightly less outdated, and a couple books on macroeconomics that each probably weigh around five pounds.

 

Which, okay, he’s definitely tempted. Books so clearly neglected, and they did let him sleep in here…

 

No, he’s not that stupid. Not on his first morning.

 

His ( _admittedly, very alert_ ) senses pick up the first sounds of someone stirring in the house. Again, there’s no telling what they’ll expect from him, so he winds up debating the relative merits of staying in his room and going out to greet whoever was awake. He’s tentatively decided to wait a few minutes ( _best not give them any reason to suspect he might have been Up To Something while they were asleep_ ) when he hears what sounds like the front door opening and closing and the house is once again silent.

 

Right then. Notebook it is.

 

It’s not the first time he’s written about this topic, but it’s the first since he learned of the Washingtons. He’s outlining his plans, what needs to happen in the next fourteen months until he ( _officially_ ) turned eighteen. A little more than a year and he can finally move on from this chapter of his life ( _not a punching bag or a breathing paycheck locked away or--_ ).

 

Fourteen months. The Washingtons are the end of the road. He had to make it work. ( _A good man, heard that one before._ ) Even if— ( _Dammit you’ve barely met either of them stop it_ ).

 

So he plans, writing in his typically vague fashion—a boring discussion on the relative merits of different textiles hiding his actual thoughts on the situation and the conversation he’d had ( _lecture, really_ ) with his case-worker. It’s a habit he’d gotten into while living with George, once he’d realized that nothing he wrote was truly private.

 

He’s jolted out of his thoughts, predictably, when he once more hears a hint of movement in the house.

 

The sun’s up by now. He doesn’t have an excuse to hide much longer, and writing things out had helped focus his mind and remind himself the reasons he was doing this. Why he stayed in a system that didn’t care in a society that had already made up their minds about him. Reminded him of his dreams, torn and stitched back together so many times now that they were hardly recognizable as coming from the original.

 

He’s survived every single one of his worst days so far. He can do this.

 

He pauses in front on the door, does his best to relax his shoulders and not look like a man facing a firing squad. In the past, he’d recited a litany of hopeful thoughts at this point. Later, he’d reasoned that they couldn’t possibly be worse than some of the things he’d already experienced. ( _fools who run their mouth off wind up dead)._ He’s too jaded for those thoughts now. It didn’t matter what’s happened, really. _(no one would believe anyway)._ He had to survive, so he would.

 

With that pleasant thought, he opened the door and cautiously made his way downstairs.

 

He found Mr. Washington in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

 

The man was even more terrifying in the daylight. At least six feet tall, clearly fit and self-assured. _(you don’t stand a chance)._ The kind of man who never got into fights simply because his opponents knew they would lose.

 

To his credit, Alex only hesitated a moment before making his way further into the room _(still out of arms reach—I’ll get a warning, at least)_.

 

Mr. Washington must have heard his approach. He turned, and for just a moment their eyes met before Alex hastily looked away.

 

“Good morning Alexander,” Mr. Washington said neutrally.

 

The name makes him cringe internally, but he pushed the irrational dislike aside and reminded himself that he _(probably?)_ wasn’t in trouble for anything yet.

 

“Good morning, Sir,” he replied, someone managing to come out even-toned and ( _hopefully)_ respectful.

 

“I see you’re an early riser as well,” Mr. Washington commented.

 

Was Alex supposed to respond to that? He couldn’t tell. Best just stay silent.

 

He must have guessed correctly, because Washington took another sip of his coffee before continuing, “I’ve always found that there’s a certain level of tranquility this time of day, a calm you can only find when the world’s just beginning to awaken. There’s something about the sunrise, about the start of a new day…”

 

Alex hated mornings. Mornings meant expectations. Expectations that he rarely met. Expectations that usually meant consequences, and not ones he liked. His first thoughts upon waking ( _when not too busy panicking to think)_ tended to be a mental calculation of how long his day might be, and how soon he could escape it.

 

Alex didn’t respond, of course. For a moment, they were both silent.

 

“Martha likely won’t be up for another hour or so, and Gil is away this week visiting a friend. It’s best to give you a chance to settle in before dealing with that kind of energy in any case, I think,” Mr. Washington said, smiling fondly at the end.

 

Jill? Alex hadn’t realized the Washingtons had a daughter. Alex couldn’t help but remember the last family he’d lived with who had a daughter ( _all tangled sheets and sweaty limbs_ ). If anything like that happened here ( _cares about his family_ )—well, Alex might end up with more than a bad concussion. He’d be lucky if anyone even found the body. Lucky if they even looked.

 

Out in the middle of the country, not likely he’d be able to outrun this giant of a man if it came to that—

 

Alex sharply pushed away the grim ( _ridiculous_ ) thoughts. Not helpful, and not warranted at this stage. He didn’t know what the Washingtons were like, not yet, beyond what his case-worker had told him. She trusted him. ( _she’d been wrong before._ ) Alex wanted to trust her this time—she hadn’t known the others personally, like she claimed to know the Washingtons. ( _Which just means you won’t be believed when things go wrong._ )

 

Before his thoughts could spiral any further, Mr. Washington cleared his throat. Alex’s attention snapped back to Washington at the noise. The man had an odd expression on his face, but it was gone before Alex could attempt to interpret it.

 

“How about we continue this conversation over breakfast?”

 

Alex’s stomach decided to grumble, as if awoken by the mere possibility of food. He’d gotten a snack when they left the station, but before that he hadn’t eaten since—well, since before the fight. Alex froze, flushing. But Washington merely chuckled, saying, “I take it you agree with me, then.” He sat his coffee down and moved for the pantry.

 

“Muffins?”

 

Was this supposed to be a trick question? ( _It’s just the first day he might be genuine.)_

“Right, silly question. I remember how I was at your age! Milk, orange juice… water?”

 

Alex knew this one.

 

“Water, please. If you don’t mind, sir.”

 

“No need to call me Sir, I get enough of that at work every day.” Washington turned and seemed surprised to see Alex still standing where he’d been.

 

“Go on, sit down. Although, if you’d like, you can grab the pitcher of water from the fridge, and glasses are in the cabinet to the left. Go ahead and get two.”

 

Of course. ( _lazy_ ). Just letting Washington rummage around, expecting the man to cater to his every whim. Alex hurried to comply. The pitcher and cups sat awkwardly in his hands, and he carefully followed Washington to the table. Miraculously, for once his hands weren’t shaking too badly and he managed to make it without incident.

 

He hovered uncertainly for a moment before Washington gave him permission to sit down once more ( _stupid he already had_ ).

 

“Help yourself.” Washington gestured to the container of muffins he’d placed alongside the bowl of fruit that had already been sitting on the table. “Martha just made them yesterday.”

 

Alex hesitated for a moment, but even his paranoia had its limits ( _it’s only the first day_ ) and he _was_ incredibly hungry.

 

“Thanks, uh, Mr. Washington,” Alex said, grabbing a muffin.

 

He still waited until Washington took a bite before he did, of course. Some rules, he’d learned, were constant across homes.

 

“I don’t think we were properly introduced last night. You can call me George, if you like. Do you prefer Alexander?”

 

“Usually people call me Hamilton, sir.” Alex replied. The only one who’d ever called him Alexander was—well, generally his guardians, classmates, and teachers stuck to Hamilton ( _only mom ever used Alex._ ) Belatedly, he realized he’d included the ‘sir’ out of habit. Fortunately, Washington ( _I don’t want another George)_ seemed willing to let it pass without comment.

 

“Hamilton it is then! Now, I understand you’ve had some difficulties with your guardians in the past.” Alex nodded uncertainly. _(Here it comes.)_

“As far as I’m concerned, however, you’re starting with a clean slate. It’s not my job to judge you by your actions with previous families; I care about what you do now. That being said, I think it’s important to lay out what the expectations are in this household, and what you can expect from me in return.” ( _Another list of impossible rules? Sounds great!_ )

 

Alex wasn’t cynical. Not at all. But he’s been through this song and dance before, only now it’s not just his current well-being but his entire future on the line ( _maybe it’s always been this way_ ) and somehow, that makes it so much worse.

 

His stomach gave a small lurch and he unconsciously straightened.

 

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing too arduous!” Washington said with a small smile. ( _“I’m sure you’ll manage to learn quickly enough,_ son— _”)_

 

Alex’s attempted smile in response came out more a grimace. He glanced down at his hands and _(dammit trembling is not helping)_ he stubbornly pressed them into the table slightly to still them. _(pull yourself together Hamilton.)_

 

He looked back at Washington, who had an unreadable expression on his face. The man didn’t say anything for a moment, giving Alex a searching look. Whatever was in Alex’s expression at that moment didn’t seem to be making him happy, though. Before Alex could start apologizing for whatever he’d done ( _don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for)_ , Washington gave a small sigh and spoke.

 

“Hamilton, in this household, we respect one another. We’ll treat you like the near-adult man you are, and in return I just ask that you respect us as well. I don’t expect you to blindly agree with everything Martha or I say, but if we ask you to do something you find unreasonable, we ask that you discuss the matter with us.”

 

That sounded more reasonable than anything he’d heard from the others, at least. Depending on the definition of “respectful” Mr. Washington was using. Alex was aware that his experiences in the foster care system were somewhat atypical—he’d spent days in the library doing research when he first went into the system. But two years later, the weight of his own experiences outweighed the anecdotal, optimistic claims of the literature.

 

Still, trying to clarify the situation now, while Washington seemed to be in a charitable mood, seemed to be the safest course.

 

“What if I still don’t find it… reasonable?” Alex winced internally. That came out too challenging.

 

“Well, it depends on the situation. For example, if we ask you to not stay out past a certain hour, but you choose to do so anyways, that would result in a loss of certain privileges.”

 

Privileges. ( _Everything you have is a privilege._ ) He wanted to ask, but knew what ‘privileges’ he lost for his perceived infractions was like as not to be completely arbitrary based on Washington’s mood.

 

He needs this to work out. That will go much better if he’s not antagonizing the man constantly, but he also is not in the mood for vagueness when it’s obvious there are hard rules underlying the man’s initial statement. For once, he bites his tongue and swallows the acerbic response that came to mind. He wants to ask what the rules are. What they expect from him, because it’s never _really_ that simple. But he can’t find the words. ( _isn’t that ironic?_ )  So instead he nods in acquiescence, determinedly not looking at the man and keeping his focus on the muffin in front of him. He’d lost his appetite, but he wasn’t stupid—sure, he felt nauseous, but he should be able to at least keep a single muffin down. Hopefully.

 

The silence as he takes the next few bites are painfully awkward.

 

Sure enough, though, Washington continues a few moments later. Alex isn’t sure, but the man sounds almost… resigned?

 

“Alright then, a few ground rules. Food stays in the kitchen or dining room.” ( _Don’t sneak food._ ) “—We generally expect Gil to be home by midnight during the summers, and you’re about the same age so that applies to you as well.” ( _The less we see you the better._ ) “--Violence, drugs, or smoking are not tolerated in this house.” ( _Don’t fight back._ ) “—If you want to go somewhere… actually, can you drive yet?”

 

Alex almost snorted. The mental image of the absolute train wreck that would have occurred if either of his most recent guardians has attempted to teach him how to drive would have been hilarious if not for the part of him that shuddered at the thought of being ever trapped in a confined space ( _no escape nowhere to run)_ with either of them. Besides that, he’d lived in New York; it wasn’t even that unusual to not know how to drive there.

 

“No, sir,” he replied. And, of course, ‘sir’ had slipped out again. Three years later, the respectful form of address was instinctively integrated into his responses to anyone with any sort of power over him. When Washington didn’t comment, he decided he was probably worrying too much—that order, like as not, had probably just been a joke taken out of the “Mr. Such-and-such is my father, call me X” playbook.

 

“Okay. Gil’s old bike is in the basement. You can use that once we get you a phone—” ( _wait, what?_ ) “—if you’re interested, but until then, just ask if you need a ride from one of us. It’s about five miles into town.”

 

“That pretty much covers the basics. How about I give you a brief tour of the house?”

 

Alex had quickly and quietly finished his muffin while Washington was speaking.

 

“I’d like that,” Alex responded after a moment’s pause. His own pessimistic doom-saying aside, nothing the man had said actually sounded impossible or incredibly unreasonable.

 

Alex moved to clear the table, but Washington waved him off with a simple, “No, I’ll just put the pitcher in the fridge for Martha. Trashcan’s under the sink.”

 

The tour of the house was fairly short. The first floor housed the standard set of rooms- the kitchen, a dining room, a living room, a half bath and a laundry room. A door led out to the three-car garage, which had an oddly large inset cubbyhole ( _no door, at least_ ) to the right of the door and lofted storage on the sides. Another door, beneath the enormous staircase, lead down to an ( _absurdly spacious_ ) family den, complete with a small bar area, enormous sectional couch, and TV. There were several rooms; Washington and his wife each had their own offices, although her office clearly doubled as a crafting space. The third room, nested between the two, had a set of French doors which opened up to a space absolutely covered with bookshelves.

 

Alex’s eyes widened as he scanned some of the titles in the collection—all the famous classics, yes, but also modern memoirs, biographies, novels, and non-fiction books. Alex looked to Washington despite himself, perhaps to beg for permission to at least _touch_ some of the tomes, but Washington anticipated him with a smile in his words and quite possibly the nicest thing anyone had said to him in years—“You are of course, welcome to read anything you’d like. Would you like a minute to look around?”

 

Alex nodded eagerly, forgetting for a moment all his doubts and fears as he took in the sheer amount of _knowledge_ he was being given access to. He took in some of the individual books on the shelves, his mind rapidly compiling and discarding books in a list of what he’d read first, what books might be best read together…

 

His eyes settled on a thick biography just above eye-level on one of the corner shelves. _Lin-Manuel Miranda_. The definitive biography of the man who shaped the American financial system, a ( _bastard, orphaned_ ) immigrant just like him—one of his earliest idols, when he’d first read about the man born on an island near his own—on what was today Puerto Rico. As a child, he’d fantasized of what his life would have been like if he’d been born there, instead of the destitute island of Nevis. His mom would have been able to pursue her dream of dancing, and he would have a real shot in life. Then later, when things had gone wrong… maybe, if they’d lived in America, his mom would have gotten the help she needed. Would still be alive.

 

He reached out, tracing the embossed golden lettering on the spine.

 

The sound of Washington quietly clearing his throat behind him startled him out of his thoughts. He dropped his hand and reluctantly turned back towards the man.

 

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely grateful.

 

Washington had an inscrutable look on his face for a moment. Alex blinked, and it was gone, replaced with a kind smile and a simple, “You’re welcome.”

 

They continued from there, Washington pointing out a smaller storage closet and a full bathroom before gesturing to the final, unopened door.

 

“That’s just our storage room. We’ve been saying we’re going to reorganize that place for years, but we haven’t yet so I’d advise just staying out for now lest you end up trapped underneath an avalanche of stuff.”

 

The mental picture of himself, trapped ( _or locked_ ) in a small, cramped storage room was… not a pleasant one.

 

He forcefully pushed the thought out of his mind as he followed George back upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the start of my take on the "Foster Care AU". Though there will be an overarching plot, this is largely intended as an exercise in introspection-- an attempt to portray Alex's internal narrative and struggles as they are occurring. My goal is to make Alex's background and experiences as plausible as possible, as well as providing a realistic portrayal of what it's like to live with PTSD-- both in terms of the toxic mindsets that can occur, and the challenges faced by those who care for the person suffering from it.


	2. A Woman's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex over-analyzes everything, meets the Washington matriarch, and learns a bit more about his new guardians.

Although it’s a Monday, Washington had apparently taken the day off to help Alex settle in ( _whatever that means_ ). Despite this, it seemed that he wasn’t exempt from having work obligations.

 

They’d just finished their tour of the house when Washington’s phone began to buzz insistently in his pocket. He pulled it out, a hint of a grimace at the number.

 

“Ah, unfortunately I really ought to take this,” he said apologetically before answering the call.

 

“Good Morning, Baylor. I’ll admit, I was expecting to hear from you at some point, but not _this_ early in the day,” he said.

 

Alex couldn’t make out the response, but whatever it was must not have been good news judging by the faint frown that appeared on Washington’s face the longer he listened. Alex shifted awkwardly, not sure if he was meant to leave but inching his way towards the door anyways.

 

“Right. Listen, I’m with Alexander—Yes, the kid I mentioned yesterday—So give me about fifteen minutes to head down to my office, and look things over before I give you a call back. Okay?”

 

A pause, then, “Of course, Baylor. Thank you for letting me know… We’ll talk soon... Bye.”

 

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Washington turned his focus back to Alex.

 

“Sorry about that. Apparently, there’s a few fires I need to put out this morning. That’s what I get for taking a day off on such short notice, I suppose. I’m going to head down to my office for a while—hopefully not too long, but if Martha gets upset, just let her know it’s all Baylor’s fault, _not_ mine, and I’ll wrap things up as quickly as I can.”

 

Right, guess that means he wasn’t allowed to just escape outside for the rest of the day then.

 

“Of course, I’m sorry—” he began. The apology was automatic, because he’d made the man miss his probably-important job ( _What did Washington do, anyways?_ ) just to make sure the troubled teen he was housing didn’t burn down the place or whatever else everyone imagined people with his sort of ‘behavioral issues’ did.

 

Maybe he could go read? The man had offered. Except, that would probably come off as entitled. He hadn’t actually done anything to earn that privilege yet, had he? Washington hadn’t mentioned anything specific, had said he was welcome to it, but Alex was trying to make a good impression here. (“ _Entitled bastard—")_ If he volunteered to work, did something proactive rather than waiting to be bossed around like a _moron_ , that would come off much better. Maybe… laundry? His own clothes desperately needed washing, he could ( _probably?_ ) get away with throwing them in with the Washington’s. He’d noticed, on the tour, the full basket of clothes beneath the laundry chute.

 

Adams had been the only one that had a problem with their clothes “mixing” when Alex did the laundry. ( _Either no one else had noticed, or more likely, no one else had cared because Adams was just a racist motherf—Ahem. Not the time._ )

 

He realized he might have been silent for a moment too long, so he continued speaking before Washington decided to give him an order himself and the whole point was moot.

 

“I could get some laundry done in the meantime?” Alex offered.

 

“If you’d like…Martha will probably be awake soon though; I think she might have decided to sleep in a bit since we were up a bit later than usual last night.”

 

How was Alex supposed to interpret that? Alex knew he’d inconvenienced them the night before, had already apologized. ( _Never mind that it wasn’t_ his _fault the paperwork had come through so late and arranging transportation had taken_ even longer _and it’d been deemed more expedient to send him on his way rather than try to figure out other arrangements for the evening_.)

 

“Will the noise wake her?” he asked instead.

 

“No, it’s more than far enough away; that shouldn’t be an issue. I’m guessing you’re running a bit low on clean clothes?”

 

Alex nodded, and that sounded like permission to him. Good, he’d chosen correctly then.

 

“All right then. Like I said, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” Washington responded, before heading off in that direction.

 

Alex chose to see it as a good sign, that he was being trusted ( _at least a little_ ) to work unsupervised already. Perhaps Washington was being genuine in his claims of giving Alex the ‘benefit of the doubt.’

 

With that in mind, Alex pulled down the basket from where it rested beneath the chute, letting out a quiet hiss when he belatedly remembered his shoulder. After taking a moment to recover, he went upstairs to fetch his meager wardrobe, including the boxers he’d done his best to clean in the shower _(Because really, those would be much cleaner if they were run through a proper washer.)_

 

His wardrobe was incredibly monochromatic, blue jeans and forest green t-shirts and heather gray long sleeved tees and of course, his signature dulled blue hoodie with long-faded branding. Even his socks, which he knew had once been white, had grayed with age _(And, of course, with Adam’s policy of keeping their clothes separate, from months being washed with the rest of his much darker clothes.)_ They were too far gone to bleach back easily now, so they were sorted into the wash with the other darks. He started that load first, the remainder of the Washington’s clothes rooted into three much smaller piles: the warm tones of summer, whites, and the brighter shades of cool colors that remained. The tags on Washington’s dress slacks and collared shirts in particular were carefully verified as machine safe before being added to the mix.

 

The nice thing about doing laundry, in Alex’s mind, was that the bulk of the time was just spent waiting for the machines to finish. Normally, Alex might be expected to work on other chores during that time, but looking around, Alex couldn’t immediately pick out anything that needed to be done. In lieu of sitting around in silence, Alex opted to take a slight risk and head down to the library for a bit.

 

Downstairs, he could hear Washington’s deep voice through the slightly ajar door to his office. It was easy enough to ignore. He took his time looking through the collection. He wasn’t quite _afraid_ to actually select one to start reading. It was more a matter of wanting to familiarize himself with the entire library, lest a too-hasty selection cause him to miss out on a better option. _(Also, it’s incredibly hard to pick just a single book. And who knew how much reading time there actually was.)_

 

He finally settled on an annotated, hardcover edition of _The Federalist Papers._ He’d read the most famous ones before, of course. The tenth, on the challenges of state-based factionalism. No. 39, on the concept of a republican government. His personal favorite, the penultimate Essay 84 which interestingly argued _against_ the need for a Bill of Rights. There were other books that he was more eager to read ( _the biography_ ). There were others that he recognized from his summer reading list from New York. ( _The Jungle. Our Town. The Things They Carried._ ) A couple, that he’d read before in English that Washington owned, unabridged, in their original language. ( _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. Don Quijote de la Mancha._ )

 

This choice was strategic. He wanted something he would enjoy, which ( _“such a f’ing nerd—")_ he would, but not something that he’d get too invested in reading ( _literally any narrative-based work_ ) or might give Washington the wrong impression ( _“We’re in_ America _we speak_ English _here, muchacho—"_ ). In New York, at least, he’d been registered for Government and U.S. History come Fall, so he’d also ( _maybe?_ ) be able to justify the reading as schoolwork if necessary.

 

Yes, Alex acknowledged to himself that he might be somewhat over-thinking things. Just a bit. Call it a character flaw. Or a side effect from a mind that would never shut up, and life experiences telling him that these small, seemingly minor decisions could have ( _and had had_ ) negative repercussions. 

 

Still, he made he way back upstairs with the book, fetching his notebook and pencil from the second story. He checked on the washer ( _22 minutes_ ) and sat down to read.

 

The next hour passed in peaceful solitude. The laundry was rotated twice, and he started on sorting out his own clothes from the Washington’s. It was mindless work, and he was still caught up in the commentary from the essay he was currently reading, turning over the author’s analysis that didn’t match with his initial interpretation in his mind.

 

When a hand landed on his shoulder, he was taken completely by surprise. Perhaps he could blame it on sleep deprivation, the dream or the simple fact that he was still incredibly high strung from the whole fiasco with Adams ( _maybe the last face I’ll ever see_ ). Whatever the cause, Alex flinched violently. His hand reflexively shot out in a retaliatory swing that connected with a solid— _oh shit._

He whirled around at the startled cry, dropping the shirt he’d been holding and scuttling backwards rapidly until his shoulders made painful contact ( _it just had to hit that_ exact _spot, of course)_ with the door to the garage. He looked up, stomach dropping further as he began to understand the implications of what his thoughtless action might mean.

 

Forget worries about the Washington’s daughter he hasn’t even met yet. The woman standing in front of the laundry room in shock, slightly shorter than Alex at five feet ( _the growth spurt will come someday…or it would have, if not for the fact that I’ll probably never get past the early stages of puberty now_ ). Dark brown hair, still damp from the shower, framed the face he’d just hit. The face of the woman he’d just _assaulted_. The face of Washington’s wife, Martha.

 

He was dead. Worse, he might just _wish_ he was dead once Washington ( _cares about his family--)_ was through with him. She didn’t look hurt, per se; there hadn’t been much force behind the instinctive blow. Not that it mattered, if they decided to press charges. Not that it mattered, when the narrative would write itself—Good, Upstanding Citizen defends Wife from Troubled Delinquent. Alex wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. ( _Maybe literally. Washington’s enormous, or there’s a flight of stairs_ right there _or—)_ Alex cut off that spiral of thoughts before they could devolve further.

 

Whatever vengeance the man might be inclined to take, Washington would be absolved by circumstance. The threat of police involvement alone would likely ( _definitely, let’s be honest here_ ) serve as sufficient leverage for Hamilton himself not to protest. He might even deserve it, because he’d never ( _not when he’d been callously reprimanded by Charlotte, manhandled by Mrs. Eacker, or awoken from nightmares by Abigail—)_ dared to strike one of his foster mothers before. His real mother had always taught him to respect women, to never hit a girl ( _woman, here_ ), and he’d listened. Until now.

 

 _Damn it_. Barely an hour, and already spitting in the face of the olive branch Washington had offered.

 

Maybe he hadn’t heard anything, and he could convince Mrs. Washington that she didn’t need to involve her husband? Or perhaps convince her that he could be useful enough despite this, get her on his side at least enough that he wouldn’t find himself with a one-way ticket to Lynchburg ( _at best_ ) in less than a day.

 

It’d be a record, he thought bitterly, with less than twenty-four hours spent in a placement.

 

He raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender and non-violence, rapidly stammering out his apology.

 

“I—ma’am, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean—that is to say, I just reacted—I mean, I know better than to—I attacked you without cause, I apologize, and I shouldn’t have done that.” ( _Where was that alleged eloquence now?!_ )

 

He risks meeting her eyes, in his haste to apologize. She looks… not quite angry, more surprised than anything. Something she sees in his undoubtedly panicked expression causes her eyes to tighten slightly, the hint of a frown beginning to form. Before Alex can start up again, she cuts him off with a response.

 

“Alexander, it’s alright. I shouldn’t have startled you like that,” she says calmly. ( _soothingly?_ )

 

Whatever response he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. The confusion startles him out of his panic, gives him a moment to let out at shaky breath and collect himself slightly. He should take the acquittal for what it is, but his _stupid mouth_ won’t let it be, and he begins to blurt out a protest in response.

 

“But I—"

 

“—But nothing. George is always complaining that I’ll give him a heart attack one day, sneaking up on him all the time. Now true, I’d rather you not respond with violence like that, but I’m hardly going to blame you for what was clearly an accident.” Her voice has taken on a no-nonsense tone.

“But it wasn’t an accident!” Because he’d been reacting to a perceived threat, ultimately, and in that sense the violence had been completely intentional. ( _Dammit why are you arguing about this, you moron?!)_

 

“Are you saying you meant to hit me?” Her voice, still level and calm.

 

“Not _you—_ ” he protests immediately. ( _Life in juvie would still be life, and the dead accomplish_ nothing _._ )

 

“I thought not. Therefor, an accident,” she responds, emphasizing the last word. Alex isn’t dumb enough to protest twice. ( _Though clearly, dumb enough to do so once._ )

 

“Right. An accident,” he agrees, trying to convince himself. “Still, I’m sorry ma’am.”

 

Mrs. Washington accepts the apology this time with a nod.

 

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, have you seen my husband recently? I thought he’d taken the day off, but since you’re here and he’s not…” she trails off, implication obvious. Alex winces, because of course the fact that Washington had been willing to extend a modicum of trust to him didn’t mean his wife would be okay with that, or with him being left to his own devices for any amount of time.

 

Which is frustrating, but given his record it’s perhaps far more rational than Washington’s approach.

 

“He, uh… he said to tell you it was all Baylor’s fault? He didn’t leave… he’s just downstairs, in his office?” Alex responds uncertainly, the statements coming off more as questions.

 

“That man…” she says with a mix of fondness and exasperation, shaking her head slightly.

 

“Ah yes, how can you stand him?” a voice to Alex’s right says. He nearly jumps out of his skin and turns, knowing he probably looks like a startled rabbit as he takes in Washington ( _who else?_ ) at the top of the stairs. He’s normally so much more attentive to his surroundings, first Mrs. Washington and now the man himself… letting his guard down even slightly in unknown, possibly enemy territory was foolish of him. ( _What if they’re not the enemy, though?_ ) He was all but asking for trouble.

 

The man meets Alex’s ( _guilty_ ) eyes, losing their humorous sparkle at whatever he sees there. There’s a delay where Alex can’t quite manage to force himself to break the gaze, even as his mind blares internal warnings at him to look away. ( _Eye contact is disrespectful. Avoiding eye contact is a sign of guilt. Catch-22, but avoid the blatant defiance that will only make it worse._ )

 

In the end, Washington breaks contact first, turning to look in the direction of his wife questioningly. Alex keeps his eyes trained on Washington, hyper-aware of any shifts in facial expression or body language. ( _Eyebrows drawn, clenching jaw, tense muscles, narrowed eyes…)_ In the span of a few seconds, the couple seemed to have an entire conversation. Alex watched as he processed whatever his wife had said, and his expression shifted into clear unhappiness. ( _Angry, disappointed, realizing how foolish it’d been to trust even a little._ )

 

Washington began to turn back to Alex. Before he could say ( _or do_ ) anything, Alex rushed to speak. ( _Apologize, grovel, plead, argue, defend, reason— a million options tried a thousand times before that never work._ )

 

“Mrs. Washington agreed it was an accident,” he blurts. Not quite pleading, an appeal more to Mrs. Washington to argue on his behalf than anything. He could accept that he deserved some sort of consequences, but Washington had seemed relatively reasonable when they spoke earlier this morning. Maybe he could avoid physical violence. ( _battered enough, body not ready for more—though, was it ever?_ ) Loss of privilege, he’d said. If it wasn’t a matter of Alex himself initiating the violence ( _even though it was either way_ ), he might be more inclined to stick to that promise. Or at least, avoid the extremes Alex’s mind had conjured.

 

Washington’s voice doesn’t _sound_ furious when he responds. ( _Calm before the storm._ )

 

“Why don’t we move this conversation out into the dining room?” Washington suggests.

 

“Dear, you just want access to that fresh pot of coffee I started, don’t you?”

 

“Guilty,” he replies affably. He turns to Alex for his response to the ( _feigned_ ) offer.

 

Off-balance, Alex acquiesces automatically. That’s the trouble with new placements: he’s never quite sure of his own read on the situation. It’s terrifying, because he just doesn’t know what to expect. Doesn’t have much context on Washington’s personality beyond what he’d been told ( _but those are were just adjectives, could imply a dozen different behaviors, the power dynamic here clearly favors Washington, whereas another adult would know the man on more equal terms—the aphorism that absolute power corrupts absolutely exists for a reason_ ) and the minimal interactions they’d had so far. Not enough to know if he should brace himself ( _Alex you gotta fend for yourself_ ), or what he should brace himself for ( _just don’t speculate any more right now)_.

 

He’s not quite comfortable showing Washington his back, but follows the unstated command to move first anyways. He can’t bring himself to relax the tension in his shoulders, even though he knows ( _hopes?_ ) Washington won’t do anything ( _yet?_ ). He has no reason to, ( _seeing the blow coming won’t help_ ) nor has he given Alex the impression that he’s even that type of person. ( _Been wrong before._ ) Logically, he knows that even if something were to occur, injuries tend to be more minor if you’re not already tense. It’s the same reason drunk individuals are actually more likely to survive a severe car crash than their sober counterparts. Not like he can just tell his body not to react at all, unfortunately.

 

They make their way over to the table, the faint hiss of the coffeemaker boiling water the only noise in the room.

 

Too late, Alex remembers the still-open book he’d be reading and his also-open notebook right beside it. He’d been sitting where Washington had sat this morning ( _back to the windows_ ). Even though the man had given him permission, even though he’d already had that argument with himself ( _and won_ ), he couldn’t help the way his heart skipped a beat in fear anyways over his own presumptuousness. ( _Dumbass, why don’t you just panic over one thing at a time, yeah?_ )

 

The man didn’t say anything, though. Just took a look at what was obviously Alex’s workspace, and sat in the chair to the right of it. Which would have been fine, except Mrs. Washington took the chair to the left and it was a round table with only four chairs. Unable to delay the inevitable, suppressing the urge to fidget ( _“lacks decorum”_ ), Alex sat.

 

Washington is, of course, the one to speak first.

 

“Now then,” he says, in a tone Alex couldn’t quite place, “What was an accident? I feel a bit out of the loop here.”

 

In the background, the water begins to filter through the coffee. Alex swallows through the lump in his throat, eyes trained on his ( _not shaking… okay a little but dammit that’s from stress not fear_ ) hands.

 

“I hurt your wife, sir,” Alex admits baldly. He’d already given his primary defense, if the man wants excuses he’ll ask for them. He hears a feminine sigh, and Mrs. Washington begins to speak.

 

“I snuck up on him and startled him. Alexander barely touched me, and immediately apologized—even though it was obviously not intentional.”

 

A breath Alex hadn’t realized he’d been holding is released, because she’s defending him ( _thank-you-thank-you-thank-you)_.

 

“Hamilton,” he blurts out ( _why the hell not the time_ ), then clarifies “I, uh, prefer Hamilton. Sorry ma’am.” ( _Prefer it because I hate my name, hate that the one thing my mother gave me I still have is_ painful _to hear._ )

 

A few seconds of silence, and Washington’s voice again.

 

“Hamilton,” Washington says, and there’s a note of command in his voice. Alex looks up, not quite able to meet his gaze ( _bridge of the nose, no one knows_ ).  Voice serious, he continues.

 

“You are not in trouble. We won’t—” he cuts himself off, seems to think better of whatever he was going to say. ( _Shoe’s gonna drop soon._ )

 

“You have had a rough couple of days, from what I understand.” ( _you don’t know the half of it._ ) “—Anyone would be a bit jumpy after that, we won’t fault you for it.” Washington seems determined to emphasize that last point, and another inch of the tension built up in Alex dissipates at his insistence.

 

He'd not certain if he’s supposed to respond, but he finds himself nodding in acceptance anyways.

 

The coffee finishes brewing with a few last half-hearted drips.

 

Washington gives Alex one final looking, before turning to his wife and beginning leadingly, “So, about that coffee…”

 

“You’re a grown man, get it yourself. Or has having an assistant addled your brain so much you’ve forgotten how?” She retorts, but her tone and the way she begins to stand belie her words.

 

“Hamilton, did you want any?” she asks, making her way over to the cabinet.

 

Any coffee? ( _Yes, please. All that internal panicking over nothing zaps energy like you wouldn’t believe._ )

 

“I, uh… I never finished folding the laundry, I’ll go take care of that real quick ma’am!” Is what he says instead. Gripping the excuse to leave like a lifeline, he flees the room. ( _You gonna pull yourself together?)_ Maybe it’s rude ( _okay, definitely_ ) to leave so abruptly, but he knows he needs a moment to collect himself away from the Washingtons. He can deal with the book, and whatever else may come up then. ( _Christ it’s not even ten in the morning yet.)_  He needs to pull himself back together. ( _not some broken doll, I_ refuse _to be._ )

 

…He _really_ hates the first day in a new household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I once accidentally backhanded a friend (pretty painfully, allegedly) when they tried to get my attention from behind unexpectedly. None of my friends have made the mistake of sneaking up on me since.
> 
> Also, I spent the past month doing FanNoWriMo on a different work that's much less challenging to write. Didn't reach 50k, but I'm pretty proud of the 20k I did accomplish.
> 
> I appreciate the support on the first chapter! It definitely helped motivate me to get this one out before Christmas.


	3. Dirty Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex breaks all his rational rules of conversation and learns a bit about his new guardians before taking a nap that somehow makes everything even worse.

Alex has always had a complex relationship with sleep. Some of his earliest memories ( _six, a hot muggy night with broken AC, glancing over at the clock on the oven and it’s 12:37, the thrill of late-night conversations with mom)_ are of him listening to his mom tell stories far past the time a child his age should have fallen asleep. As he’d gotten older, it’d begun to slip into full-blown insomnia. By the time he was moving to America and entering the first round of “101 Ways to Break a Bastard Orphan”, his circadian rhythm seemed to be permanently taking its cues from Stravinsky’s _Rite of Spring_ and Shostakovich’s _String Quartet No. 8_. ( _Rioting, tragically, wouldn’t help here either._ )

 

He was used to running on low energy, but even for him he’s running on fumes at this point. There’d been the fight mid-day Saturday. Then the night spent in lock-up, convinced he was a murderer ( _monster_ ). The next day there’d been the discovery of the footage, his case-worker, going in front of the judge and learning Alex wasn’t being charged with anything ( _yet_ ), and Adams is alive. Five hours on the train. Another hour in a car. Arriving here. Now, alone and coming down from a near-panic attack ( _only ever had one before, if it never happens again it’ll be too soon_ ), the wave of exhaustion’s finally coming crashing down.

 

Alex is _tired_.

 

The nervous energy that’d kept him up the night before, woken him up so early this morning and pushed him into productivity, was fading. In its place a bone-deep weariness was beginning to settle.

 

It doesn’t take very long to fold the laundry. He sets aside the dress slacks for ironing, takes the neatly folded pile of his own clothes up to his room, determinedly doesn’t look at the couple as he passes by. Coming back down, he fidgets awkwardly just outside of view. He doesn’t know where the iron is, doesn’t know if he’s supposed to go into the couple’s room himself to put everything away, doesn’t know if he’s supposed to ask or just rummage around until he’s found everything a home. ( _Okay, probably not that last one._ )

 

“…I just got back from Kutupalong two weeks ago. Everyone knows it’s only a matter of time before the situation in Myanmar blows up again, but it’s really difficult to convince anyone to fund the HCR when the Leadership keeps releasing statements like this!” Washington’s voice, frustrated. ( _Awesome, love it when they’re so cheery._ )

 

Alex is no coward. ( _…say it enough times and it’ll be true, yeah?_ ) He makes his way fully into the room, clears his throat slightly before tentatively pulling the duo out of their conversation.

 

“Uh… sir?” He waits a moment for the couple’s attention.

 

“I, erm, well I folded your laundry sir, but I wasn’t sure… it’s on top of the dryer, but I don’t, well…” Alex trails off, already berating himself for the word salad his tired mind just conjured.

 

“My laundry…?” Washington asks leadingly.

 

“Oh, did you throw our clothes in the wash with yours?” Martha says.

 

Alex nods uncertainly. Martha beams.

 

“That was very sweet of you! Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of it from here!” she says, standing and making her way out of the room.

 

Alex is once again alone with Washington, who breaks the silence before it can become awkward.

                                                                              

“You look like you’ve been hard at work this morning,” he begins, gesturing towards where his notebook and the book Alex had been reading earlier are still resting on the table.

 

Alex can’t help but tense slightly, worst-case scenarios from earlier flitting through his mind automatically. They only last a fraction of a second before reality reasserts itself as the more rational part of his brain dryly points out that there was no malice in Washington’s voice or expression. ( _You know something’s gone wrong when your own brain starts to take a tone with you…)_

 

Maybe it’s a need to prove to himself how completely rational and totally capable he is of having reasoned, normal conversations with his guardians that drives him to speak. ( _Say something intelligent, prove you’re not a moron._ )

 

“Erm, yes sir?” ( _Dammit._ )

 

“The book is from your library…” It comes out more as a confession than casual.

 

“I thought it looked familiar,” Washington acknowledges then continues, “The Federalist Papers? Interesting choice in summer reading.” ( _…Clearly you didn’t overthink this one enough, he thinks you were trying to suck up to him. No one likes a brown-noser._ )

 

“I’m… I was... going to take AP Government in the Fall, sir. And well, Miranda talks about in the first one about how it’s important to study documents yourself, instead of just blindly believing what others say about it.” It’s three quarters defensive justification, a quarter that same snark that was always getting him into trouble finally starting to bleed through.

 

“Does he now?” Rather than looking irritated, Washington seems interested. “That’s a good philosophy to live by. Are you interested in politics?”

 

“Yeah,” Alex admits. Then, before he can think better of it, he elaborates, “Can’t hope to change anything if you don’t first understand the way things are and why.”

 

Something about Washington’s expression, or maybe Hamilton’s own desire to convince the man that he was more than just a delinquent ( _“bastard brat of a Scottish peddler and a harlot—" **[1]**_ ) that prompted him to continue.

“I mean, when people write or talk about this or that document, it’s always done through the lens of whatever point they’re trying to prove, yeah? And that’s kinda inevitable, maybe, because it’s not like people can just magically extricate themselves from their biases, nor should they necessarily be expected to—what’s the point of having an opinion if you’re not gonna defend it, and all that. But anyways, it’s like the whole thing with _sola scriptura_ —erm, sorry sir—” ( _Holy shit word vomit abort abort abort…_ )

 

 “—I don’t know if you’re religious at all, but my mom raised me Presbyterian, and it’s basically like, ‘Sure, you can learn from the words of like, Augustine and Luther and Calvin and all those people who’ve dedicated their lives to understanding this shit—erm, stuff, sorry sir no disrespect—but at the end of the day, you need to go off of what the Scripture itself says, not what X person says it says. Which I guess might be a bad metaphor, because it’s not like the Founding Fathers were like, infallible or anything… I mean, uh, not trying to get into the whole ‘originalism’ debate, sorry sir.”[2]

 

( _Why are you still talking he’s probably about to slap you to get you to just SHUT THE FUCK UP, HAMILTON._ )

 

When Alex ( _finally_ ) stops speaking, he’s met with a moment of silence and he cringes inwardly on himself instinctively. ( _Where’d that eloquence and diction George was so kind as to beat into you go, dumbass?!_ ) He’s broken two of his cardinal rules of “How NOT to Make People with Authority Over You Inclined to Make Your Life Hell” with his little impassioned rant/soliloquy/soapboxing.

 

First, never bring up political beliefs.

 

Second, _for the love of God_ don’t bring up religion.

 

Another automatic apology is about to come out when Washington, apparently finally processing Alex’s long-winded rambling into something intelligible, responds.

 

“You certainly seem to have done a bit of research on the topic. You enjoy reading?” he asks. Thankfully, Washington seems willing to sidestep the multiple conversational landmines Alex just stumbled across. ( _For now_.)

 

Alex relaxes slightly, but he doesn’t trust himself to speak again so he just nods. Books are a bit of a…passionate subject for him. Not quite as bad as politics and religion, but he can and has come to blows over a debate on literature before. ( _To be fair, it wasn’t_ just _a fight about literature… Although_ _come to think, that incident probably didn’t help his whole “not a violent delinquent” case very much…)_

“I’ll admit I’ve never been much of a reader myself, although I of course did more than my fair share of reading in law school. Martha says I’m too practical to enjoy reading about things that aren’t directly relevant or necessary for my life, and she’s probably right…the one literature course I had to take in college was a nightmare to get through.”

 

Alex takes the conversational lifeline for what it is, admittedly curious to learn more about his new guardians.

 

“Are you a lawyer, then?” he asks, his mind flashing back to the snippet of conversation he’d overheard a few minutes ago.

 

“I passed the bar exam, specializing in International Law, but I’ve never practiced. I was a diplomat for a while, but I left my post oh… almost a decade ago now. Since the current Administration took office I’ve been with the State Department.”

 

Alex now has a million questions he wants to ask, but instead of one of the sensible options, he of course decides to swing right back into Risky Controversial Topic Land.

 

“So, have you been affected by the shifts in foreign policy in the past couple years, then?”

 

Washington outright laughs at that one, letting out a small chuckle.

 

“Oh, it’s been a nightmare!” he says cheerily. Seeing Alex’s confused expression, he elaborates, “Honestly, half my jobs is dealing with irate Congressmen and their often-over-inflated opinions of their own expertise.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Alex’s enthusiasm for international politics is only rivaled by his obsession with immigration policy. ( _And really, that doesn’t count for obvious reasons._ )

 

“Well, as part of my job I work a lot with the UNHCR—that is, the United Nations Refugee Agency. About ninety percent of the time, they’re dealing with crises that aren’t even making the news here in the United States, which unfortunately often means it’s very difficult to convince Congress to care about it. Particularly some of our more… obstinate House members tend to consider themselves experts on regions from reading a few briefings on the area, or perhaps visiting a city nearby two decades ago. It can become trying at times. Every day the Capitol seems to move on to a new hot-button issue, and if it’s not in the Middle East it’s generally not relevant to their constituents.”

 

It’s clearly a topic Washington’s discussed many times, his diplomatic depictions of challenging politicians well-worn.

The conversation continues for several minutes, and Alex can’t help but relax. ( _mistake._ )

 

He yawns.

 

Washington’s in the middle of a sentence. Alex catches himself, tries to hide the yawn half-way. ( _Doesn’t work._ ) Unfortunately, that only triggers another even longer, and more difficult-to-conceal yawn. Washington stops speaking, raising an amused eyebrow, and Alex flushes. ( _Blood rush, better than blood loss, I guess?_ )

 

“I… uh, sorry sir,” he apologizes quickly, looking down.

 

“You did have a rather late night, and you were up not long after I was—if you’d like, feel free to go lay down for a few hours and we’ll head out sometime this afternoon.”

 

Alex nods automatically. ( _Was that even an order?_ )

( _Hang out, head out?_ )

 

Alex doesn’t particularly want to sleep, but he knows he needs to. Without the nervous energy that had been sustaining him, his body is telling him that it’s going to shut down soon—with or without his permission.

 

He heads upstairs and ( _for once_ ) is asleep without seconds.

 

\------------------

 

_It’s a recurring dream, one of his older ones._

 

He’s ten, waiting on the cool wooden bench in the lobby of the courthouse.

 

His half-brother, Peter, walks out first. He’s beaming, and Alex’s gut sinks. He catches sight of Alex, and gives him a jaunty wave, eyes glinting. Alex scowls, but the man has already turned away—utterly dismissive, now that he’s gotten what he wanted—to talk to his lawyer.

 

His brother, James, walks out of the courtroom minutes later with Cousin Peter. This Peter looks grim; James’s face is a painting of rage and sorrow.

 

_He needs to warn James. He leaps to his feet, and he’s running and running but he never gets any closer—_

_He’s too late_ , and Alex wakes up to the sound of something shattering.

 

He’s scrambling out the door, and James is in the hallway, shards from a glass of water at his feet.

 

The pool of water is slowly expanding. The bathroom door is open, and in the tub—

 

_“It’s all your fault. Such a burden,_ you _made him do it. He couldn’t stand the thought of another year with you, because you and I both know there’s no way in_ hell _I’m going to house a murderer—” (James would never say it, but Alex wasn’t blind, he knew what the older boy had thought of his scrawny, loud-mouthed, trouble-making brother.)_

_The pool becomes a rushing flood, a torrent washing away a broken brother and a bone-white body in the gleaming bath stained crimson._

 

A beam’s falling, and James dives towards Alex. He’s too slow. Alex’s leg is crushed, and he lets out a scream of anguish—

 

“—just down the street – … — before you know it— … —be okay, I promise.”

 

_A pale, bloated corpse, like one of the many he’d seen when the island was still in chaos. It’s James, rotting flesh and maggots where his left eye once was._

_“Your fault. I should have just left you to die. Your fault. I knew one day you’d kill me too. Just like you did mom. And Peter. Hell, you may as well have killed our father—he didn’t leave until_ after _you were born. You ruin everything. Monster.”_

_Tap._

 

_Tap._

_Tap._

 

“Alexander, son,” he croons, his fingers tracing along the vein in Alex’s forearm.

 

Goosebumps. Hair standing on end.

 

Alex is carefully still.

 

“You’ve really made a mess of things this time, haven’t you?”

 

The back of his hand brushes Alex’s cheek. His eyes involuntarily rise to meet sky-blue shards, chipped ice glowing in sharp contrast to the gentle words.

 

“…You know how much this pains me, Alexander. If only you held up your end of the deal… but, I suppose that was too much to ask of an island savage, perhaps I should have known better than to take you at your word…”

 

_Killed his political career, and now your murderous crime spree is starting to catch up to you…_

“…Do you know what happens, son, to boys like you when things like this get out? I know your secret. I’m the _only one_ who can protect you… or I can be the one to condemn you myself, much as it may pain me to do so.”

 

_“Oh Alex, honey,” the touch, once so comforting, now brings to mind still-aching memories carefully (incompletely, futilely) suppressed. Her voice is just as gentle as Alex remembers, and he wants to touch her, to reach out and hug her and feel her and prove that she’s real. The rest of the world was the true nightmare._

_Her smile turns cruel and—_

Alex wakes up and lunges towards the bathroom.

 

He’s leaning over the toilet bowl, stomach rejecting the meagre breakfast he’d inflicted upon it.

 

He retches twice more. The acid’s burning in his mouth, but he’s drenched in sweat and can’t bring himself to move just yet. His head rests against the cool porcelain, and he forces himself to focus on that.

 

The sensation is too familiar. Alex shudders. Retches again, but there’s nothing left to expel. He wipes his forehead; it’s dripping with cold sweat. Mid-summer, a million degrees and humid outside, and he’s shivering like it’s thirty below. He wipes his mouth and pushes himself to his feet unsteadily.

 

Bloodshot eyes greet him. He can see the bits of bile in strands of hair he hadn’t been nearly cognizant enough to pull back. He takes in the sweat stains in his armpits, takes in the stains forming a thick ring around his collar and forming a trail down his back. Shaking hands pull up the shirt, not bothering to suppress the wince and faint hiss as his shoulder makes known its protests.

 

His pants and boxers go the same way. He doesn’t let himself catch a glimpse of his body in the mirror. He already knows what he’ll see, doesn't feel the need to punish himself with yet another unwanted reminder of the person he's become.

 

He flicks on the light, turns the shower on to its highest temperature. ( _damn the consequences, he wants to—needs to— be clean_.)

 

He can see the steam rising overhead as he steps into the scalding shower. The water washes all thought from his mind for a moment, and his eyes close as he allows the it to splash straight onto his face. ( _It doesn’t wash away the self-loathing. Doesn’t wash away the hate. The uselessness. The guilt._ )

 

Soap.

 

Washrag.

 

Scrub.

 

His skin turns bright red—from the heat, from the furious motion.

 

( _One minute._ )

 

Likely from both.

 

( _Two.)_

 

His internal alarm warns him he’s been in the shower too long.

 

( _Three minutes._ )

 

He’s not clean.

 

( _Tick._ )

 

He keeps scrubbing.

 

( _Four._ )

 

More soap, not enough to wash away the stains, attacking his hair now.

 

( _Five._ )

 

Dimly, he’s aware that he needs to calm down.

 

( _Six._ )

 

Needs to get a hold of himself, before Washington decides he needs to get a hold of Alex instead.

 

( _Seven._ )

 

The water goes from Dante’s Inferno to mid-summer Saharan.

 

( _Eight._ )

 

He’s stopped shaking.

 

( _Nine._ )

 

Mostly.

 

( _Tock._ )

 

 His arms are trembling from the force of his movements, and his left arm has started to develop ruby-red beads that—

 

Alex shuts the water off.

 

( _Ten._ )

 

Drops the rag.

 

Reaches out for the towel hanging on the rack. ( _forest green_ )

 

The fan slowly sucks away the sauna his shower had generated, and his skin gradually returns to a slightly less brilliant shade of pink as the steam dissipates. The abrasions were barely bleeding—a minor road rash if that, nothing his well-worn hoodie can’t hide.

 

He glances at the reflection in the gradually un-fogging mirror ( _mistake_ ) and sees a drowned street rat. ( _killer._ ) Sees purple bruises sharply contrasted by fading pinks. Sees the spidery mess of scar tissue that is his right leg. The ragged, torn fingernails. ( _Still half-sees the drying blood, snaps his eyes and his focus away from the stains_ ) His stupid, long hair. (“ _Bet you’re a faggot too, a whore for anyone who wants it just like your mother—”_ )

 

He’s been doing everything but acknowledging reality since Adams had first lunged at him. His mind seems to have decided to make up for lost time.

 

He can’t let his new guardians see him like this.

 

Can’t give them a reason to hate too. ( _Which is worse—faggot or fucking the daughter? Experience left a hung jury._ )

 

He’s glad he’d done his laundry now, because the clean clothes are a godsend after ruining the ones he’d been wearing so quickly.

 

He very carefully boxes away the unwanted ( _unhelpful_ ) thoughts, stuffing away the accompanying emotions in the furthest corners of his mind.

 

His skin is still faintly rosy when he deems himself presentable enough to return downstairs.

 

It’s after three. ( _How the hell did he manage to sleep that long?_ ) He finds Mr. & Mrs. Washington in the living room, sitting together on the couch. Martha’s head rests in Washington’s lap, his arm curled comfortably around her with fingers absently brushing through her hair. She’s holding an e-reader dressed in a fine leather case above her head, reading. He’s obviously deep in thought, staring off in no particular direction and jotting down the occasional note in a journal folded open on the armrest.

 

Alex is reluctant to interrupt the domestic scene and bring trouble onto himself, but before he can attempt a silent retreat Washington notices him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What distinguishes between full-blown PTSD and a "normal" response to trauma is this: when the event occurs, the emotions tied to it are so overwhelming that your brain literally gives up on processing the memory. The memory doesn't get stored properly, and neither are the emotions. Flashbacks are a result of remembering the memory like you would any other-- but, unlike with normal memories, it's as if the event just happened, and the emotions and feelings are just as intense and 'real' as if it had.
> 
> In other news, I've just started my final semester of university. My Senior Capstone is likely going to be related to some of the themes addressed in this work, so I'm not sure how that will effect my writing time especially with this work.
> 
> Fear not, however, for Alex's journey is far from over and I won't be abandoning him any time soon.
> 
> [1] http://thefederalist.com/2015/10/08/the-adams-familys-revenge-against-alexander-hamilton/ <\- No, I didn't make this Adams insult up.
> 
> [2] Also, please don’t take Alex as a mouthpiece for my own opinions. “The views expressed by characters do not necessarily reflect that of the Author” applies here. In reality Hamilton himself was raised Presbyterian, and spent a lot of time in his youth reflecting on his religious beliefs before eventually settling into the general theistic attitudes common to the era. Here, Alex has spent a great deal of time researching and reflecting on the issue, and unlike Hamilton the Founding Father, he’s got the Internet to help him along. He’s still a teenage boy just trying to figure some things out for himself.


End file.
